


Let's Pretend This Never Happened

by thesparklingone



Series: For Then, For Now, For Always: Estimeric Week 2020 [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aymeric de Morel, Chekov's lube, Comedy, Don't ask me what I was thinking, Estimeric Week (Final Fantasy XIV), Estimeric Week 2020, Fish out of Water, Humor, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, arse grease, culture clash, drunk dragoon logic, half of this happened because of lube, passive-aggressive Aymeric, profound awkardness, sulky jealous Estinien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25857148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesparklingone/pseuds/thesparklingone
Summary: “Splendid!” Gegeruju said, jumping out of his seat! “Most magnificent!” Beaming, he turned to the two elezen men. “May I present to you the very jewels in the crown of Costa del Sol! My dancing girls!”(Written for the Day 4 prompt: "Vacation.")
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: For Then, For Now, For Always: Estimeric Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1872139
Comments: 67
Kudos: 90
Collections: Estimeric Week 2020





	1. Take One

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, guys. This is truly ludicrous, and of course spun way out of hand, as usual. I wanted to have it all done before it went up but the timer on AO3 deleting my draft was drawing perilously close, so... Enjoy?

Estinien Wyrmblood had made a mistake. As far as mistakes went it wasn’t a particularly grave one—there were far worse in his past, and, unfortunately, literally everyone in Eorzea knew it—but a mistake it was nonetheless and he felt no small part the fool for having made it.

The mistake in question had been agreeing to shots with the Warrior of Light. Well, there were several mistakes encompassed within that, frankly. First: drinking with the Warrior of Light, period, who was a seven fulm tall Hellsguard woman and probably capable of guzzling an entire cask of gin before violently returning a primal to the aether, a talent that Estinien himself did not share. Second: drinking shots, of any kind, on the night before he and Aymeric were due to leave for Costa del Sol, their first vacation together… well, _ever_. And third: drinking shots, with the Warrior of Light, on the night before he and Aymeric were due to leave for Costa del Sol, of her own particular clan’s distillation, which she only ever referred to as “Roegadyn Rotgut.” An apt name, because it did indeed make his insides feel as though they were decomposing.

He’d gone four rounds.

All of these mistakes, together, had amounted to one lamentable reality: he was drunk. He was _so_ drunk. He was shitefaced as a squire of sixteen summers on his first trip to The Forgotten Knight and even through the haze of his booze-boggled mind, he already regretted everything. Though at least he had enough of his wits left to—when the urge to vomit proved too great to repress—leave his guts’ offering at the base of the steps up to Manor Dzemael. Fuckers.

At the end of the block that led to his and Aymeric’s home, he leaned back against the stone wall and groaned. He didn’t want Aymeric to see him like this—he had before, of course, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t want to have to explain, and he didn’t want to have to look into Aymeric’s eyes—gods, his eyes, more perfect eyes had Blessed Halone never before bestowed, and he would fight anyone who dared claim otherwise—and see the long-suffering resignation that even such a simple thing as a quick jaunt out the night before they departed to pay a visit to an old friend could end up with him left such a mess. Estinien knew his reputation for making messes. It didn’t need to be worse.

There weren’t many plants that could yet be grown in Ishgard, but wintergreen was one of them, and large clumps of it lined the street-side gardens of the Pillars district. Wrenching off a handful of fragrant leaves, Estinien stuffed them into his mouth and chewed furiously, hoping the minty scent would mask the stench of Hellsguard liquor. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to stand upright and walk deliberately. All he had to do was make it inside, and up to bed, without falling over, and he could sleep it off. Aymeric would be none the wiser. It would be fine.

  
* * * * *

  
Aymeric sighed happily as he stepped into the little room in Costa del Sol and dropped his bag. Neither he or Estinien were strangers to long or tedious travel but, well, the airship ride from Ishgard to Limsa Lominsa had been perhaps a tad bit turbulent. Or a lot turbulent. By the time they had arrived in the infamous pirate city, poor Estinien had looked green enough around the gills to make him worry for the ferry ride to eastern La Noscea. Mercifully, the waters had been calmer than the skies, and Estinien had at least not gotten any sicker watching the coastline slide languorously by, though he had spent most of the trip with his head bowed rather pathetically between his knees. Now, at last arrived at their destination, Aymeric had to admit that he was quite excited for the few days they had planned at the famous beach resort. He had been apprehensive to leave Ishgard, and in the end it had taken the combined nagging of Lucia, Hilda, Handeloup, his steward, and even the Warrior of Light, to get him to agree to take a vacation. Well, that and Estinien’s suggestion that if he refused to leave on his own terms, the dragoon could always drug his tea and carry him out of the city tossed over his shoulder like a maid kidnapped by brigands.

Actually, the suggestion did have a certain appeal. Not the drugging bit really but the whole being tossed over Estinien’s shoulder… hm. Or perhaps Estinien tossed over _his_ shoulder… _hmm_. Well, the silk rope was back in Ishgard anyway, so ‘twould remain something to bring up… later. For now, Aymeric put his hands on his hips and surveyed their quarters at Costa del Sol. Everything was neat and inviting, with a deft but subtle touch of luxury that he could certainly appreciate. The attached bathing chambers were similar, and similarly private, with everything punctuated by beautiful views overlooking the Strait of Merlthor to the east. Though it embarrassed him a bit to admit it, the sight of the sea still set Aymeric’s heart aflutter like a boy of ten summers. Landlocked in Ishgard and Coerthas all his life, he had only rarely ever been to the shore, and that endless vast expanse of water, stretching as far as the eye could see, never failed to fill him with awe. Standing at the open window, listening to the soft murmuration of the waves and smelling the salt on the gentle breeze, he could not help but wonder why he had been so reluctant to take his leave of the city. They had been here but twenty minutes, and already he felt lighter than he had in moons.

“Well, this is indeed rather lovely, I must say,” he declared.

Estinien groaned softly from where he had flopped onto the bed, face shoved into a pillow.

“Still feeling a bit ill, my dear?” Aymeric asked as he sat down beside him. He lightly stroked Estinien’s hair, hoping it would soothe his ailing partner.

“Bugger the airships,” Estinien muttered.

Aymeric suppressed a laugh. “Aye, those cursèd airships. Had you but informed me of your intolerance for air travel, Estinien, I would have visited the apothecary ere we departed and picked you up a potion to ward against motion sickness.”

“Didn’t think it would be a problem.”

“Or you hoped to spare yourself the ignominy of admitting that you are a dragoon plagued by airsickness,” Aymeric teased. “Instead condemning yourself to _being_ a dragoon plagued by airsickness.”

Estinien turned his head just enough to expose one of his dark blue eyes and glared at Aymeric. “Hmph,” he grunted. He shifted—gingerly—onto his side, then sat up, wincing a little as he did so. “Let’s go for a walk. The fresh air will do me good.”

“That it well may,” Aymeric agreed. “All right, then, off we go.”

They ambled out toward the boardwalk and the main section of the resort and had barely gone fifty paces when a booming voice rang out,

“My esteemed Ishgardian guests! Pray, let me bid you welcome to Costa del Sol!”

The sound had, somewhat surprisingly, come from below them, and they both looked down to find none other than Master Gegeruju himself, renowned lalafellan aesthete and proprietor of this very resort, beaming up at them from where he stood on the boardwalk. He was flanked on either side by two young, attractive miqo’te women, one bearing a clipboard and looking rather official, despite the snug bodice that was practically turning her breasts into a bookshelf, and the other wielding an enormous palm leaf with which she was gently fanning her employer.

 _She_ wore next to nothing at all.

Aymeric felt his eyes begin to widen and hastily fixed them on the lalafell, immediately plastering his most politic smile across his face.

“Master Gegeruju,” he said, “I thank you for the personal greeting. Though we have hardly been here but a bell, I am certain I speak for the both of us when I say that Costa del Sol seems indeed every bit the glory of La Noscea that you claim it to be.”

Estinien grunted. Aymeric elbowed him in the ribs.

“Aye,” he added, gruffly. “What he said.”

Gegeruju clapped his hands together delightedly. “Splendid, splendid! ‘Tis an honor indeed to have such lords of Ishgard—”

“I’m _not_ a—” Estinien began, and Aymeric elbowed him in the ribs again.

“—here in my humble abode—”

Aymeric heard Estinien snort. There was very little humble about either Master Gegeruju or his abode.

“—and I should like to well acquaint you with the full range of amenities at your disposal!”

“Er, we should be honored, Master Gegeruju,” Aymeric replied. “Is there, in fact, somewhere we may best enjoy the ocean breeze?”

“Ah!” Gegeruju raised a finger. “I know just the place! Follow me!”

He turned and strode off down the raised wooden walkway toward the main section of the boardwalk, dominated by a large, circular bar, where a burly Sea Wolf roegadyn man was busy polishing glassware. Overhead hung a sign proudly declaring the place “The Flying Shark,” capped by some of the tackiest décor Aymeric had ever seen: said titular shark, encased in an ale cask.

Gegeruju herded them both into seats that faced the sea in the shade beneath the large overhang and clapped his hands twice. “P’ebaloh!” he declared. “Fetch the dancers, would you?”

“Of course, Master Gegeruju,” the miqo’te woman with the clipboard—and moderately more modest dress—replied. She turned smartly on her heel and strode off.

Gegeruju eased himself into the seat at Aymeric’s left and waved at the bartender. “Dyrstweitz! Do bring some of the wine for my guests!”

The burly bartender nodded.

“’Tis the finest of vintages available at Wineport!” Gegeruju boasted as Dyrstweitz handed them all their glasses. Aymeric sniffed at his, then paused, glancing to his right, where Estinien sat. The dragoon was staring into his glass, a look of pure disgust creasing his features. So, he too had noticed.

The wine was not good.

Not wanting to be discourteous, Aymeric took an experimental sip. _Ah_. Indeed. Not good. Not good _at all_. Quite bad, in fact.

“Delicious.” Gegeruju sighed happily. “That’s the stuff, Dyrstweitz!”

Aymeric was steeling himself to lie most flagrantly about his opinion of the quality of the drink, but at that moment the miquo’te woman, P’ebaloh, returned, with several more young women in tow, all of whom would have been considered naked by the standards of Ishgardian society.

Despite the heat, Aymeric suddenly felt rather chilled.

“Splendid!” Gegeruju said, jumping out of his seat! “Most magnificent!” Beaming, he turned to the two elezen men. “May I present to you the very jewels in the crown of Costa del Sol! My dancing girls!”

Aymeric had no idea where to rest his eyes as all five of them—three miqo’te and two hyur—stepped forward and curtsied, so he fixed his eyes on a space in between two of the girls, looking past them to the boardwalk, sea, and sky beyond. Music started up from somewhere—of course there would be a harper—and then the women began to _dance_.

Even doing his best not to look, he couldn’t help but _see,_ from the corner of an eye, all that movement of exposed and supple flesh. Every one of these girls had to be at least ten years his junior and, oh gods in the heavens, though he well knew that customs varied greatly across Eorzea, this was just _not done_ in Ishgard and he had not at all prepared himself for this particular possibility here at the seaside resort. Of seeing people swimming or sunbathing in various stages of undress, aye, that he had known to expect, and honestly had not been that uncommon a sight during the Coerthan summer in the days before the Calamity, but for _dancers_ —and not of the stock to which he was accustomed but clearly of the _exotic type_ —he was not prepared, not remotely, and certainly not for the unbidden thoughts surfacing in his mind, words like _curvaceous_ and _voluptuous_ and _gyrate_ and _jiggle_ and the arching of backs and the shaking of breasts and the veritable _undulations_ of hips all unmistakably intended to evoke the carnal act of _coitus_ —

 _Halone deliver me,_ Aymeric thought.

He could not take this. He _was_ taking this. He was frozen in place like a rabbit caught in the open, nowhere to run. And these dancers, these women… clearly they meant to delight and to titillate and… and to _arouse_ … and clearly he was precisely, completely, _entirely_ the wrong audience for such a display.

But what about…

Aymeric dared look to his right.

Estinien was curled up in his chair, knees practically bent under his chin, hands slapped over his face. Aymeric could see his saucer-wide eyes through his splayed fingers, horrified and transfixed at once. Where they jutted out through the curtain of his white hair, his long, pointed ears were red as rolanberries.

“That’s the spirit, girls!” Gegeruju called cheerfully. “You’re all just _marvelous!_ Are they not marvelous, my esteemed guests?”

“I-indeed!” Aymeric managed to say, voice at least half an octave higher than normal.

Estinien made some unidentifiable, but identifiably distressed, sound.

“Er,” Aymeric began. “Er, Master Gegeruju—”

“Hmm?” Gegeruju looked over at him, and his eyes went wide with horror. “Oh! Oh no, no this won’t do at all!”

Relief flooded the knight. Oh, thank the Fury, an end would be put to this.

“Dyrstweitz!” shouted the little lalafell, “Dyrstweitz my dear man, you must fetch us some ice water, this instant!”

Ice water?

“A thousand apologies, good sers,” Gegeruju began. The bartender reappeared with two glasses, which Gegeruju then pressed into Aymeric and Estinien’s hands. “I failed to consider the effect that our southern clime would have upon you both! Why, it must be positively sweltering by the standards of your homeland.” Something seemed to dawn upon him and he smacked his forehead most dramatically, shaking his head back and forth. “But of course! No wonder you requested a spot where you could feel the cool breeze!”

“Um,” Aymeric said.

“D’nezra!” Gegeruju turned toward the miqo’te woman with the palm leaf. “These men are in desperate need of your services!”

“Of course, Master Gegeruju!” The young woman strode over, standing directly in front of Aymeric and Estinien, and began to wave the enormous leaf at the both of them.

Aymeric was fairly certain that he could _feel_ his soul leaving his body.

The woman—D’nezra—dutifully lifted and lowered her completely bare arms and shoulders, which in turn caused her nearly-completely bare chest to shake as the gentle wind her work created wafted through the elezen men’s hair. Vaguely, it occurred to Aymeric that said shaking was probably exactly why Gegeruju had her in the, uh, _outfit_ —if it could be called that—that he did. But all he could do was blink slowly, anchored in place, because absolutely none of his upbringing or life experience had prepared him for this, and he was far less adept at improvisation than he wished to admit.

He was, however, far more adept at it than Estinien.

It took Aymeric a moment to do so, but eventually he did register that the nearly-full glass of dreadful wine had been snatched from his hand. By the time he looked over Estinien had already drained it, his head fully tossed back to catch every last drop. Aymeric’s empty glass then joined the dragoon’s own on the table in between them. The water, however, remained untouched.

“Better, then?” Gegeruju asked. Without waiting for an answer he clapped his hands again. “Apologies for the interruption, ladies! Do continue!”

Estinien moaned softly beside him, and buried his face in his hands.

The women resumed their sensual, sinuous shimmy, shapely arms lifting above their heads, supple bellies flexing and swinging full, voluptuous hips. And oh, _oh,_ it really was not any better this time around. In fact, it was worse. Far, far worse, as Aymeric felt all his insides positively collapsing in profound discomfort.

His insides, as it turned out, were doing better than Estinien’s.

A strangled sound from his lover caught his attention, and Aymeric glanced over just in time to see Estinien shoot out of his chair, aggressively shove his way through the line of now-indignant dancers, and fall to his knees at the edge of the boardwalk, where he proceeded to puke his guts out.

Even the harper stopped.

“O-oh! Oh my!” Gegeruju exclaimed.

“Wow,” said one of the women.

“Told you your chest dhalmel was enough to turn a man’s stomach,” muttered another.

“Pray, forgive him,” Aymeric interjected, wits finally gathered enough to push himself out of his seat and make for where Estinien was hunched over himself, retching. “Good sir and mesdames, the airship ride this morning was rather bumpy, you see, and it did not well agree with—”

“An airsick dragoon,” Gegeruju interrupted, astonished. “Why, whoever heard of such a thing?” A small murmur of agreement seemed to ripple through the others gathered—the dancers, the woman with the palm-leaf, the official-looking miqo’te, and even the burly bartender.

Aymeric sighed helplessly. “Erm, aye, well, as you can see, I am afraid Estinien here is in quite a bad way, so I shall be taking him back to our room to rest. Thank you and good day.”

Before Gegeruju could get in another word, Aymeric hauled his sickly partner up by his armpits, and dragged him away.

  
* * * * *

  
Estinien managed to mostly not stumble his way back to their room, thanks to Aymeric’s firm grip around his shoulders. Once safely re-ensconced back inside, Aymeric dumped him onto the bed and sank into a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Halone _preserve_ me,” he declared.

“I would like to forget I ever saw any of that,” Estinien said from where he lay, one arm draped over his face. His head ached like it were clenched in a vice and the images of nearly-nude miqo’te and hyur women dancing—literally—behind his eyelids were in no way helping.

“Quite,” Aymeric agreed. “Mayhap you should have brought some of that Roegadyn Rotgut along with you and we could drown our troubles together, this time.”

“Mayh—” Estinien started, then stopped. Slowly, pulse pounding painfully in his temples, he pried open one eye and turned his head to face his knightly lover, who was bracing his elbow against the arm of the chair and leaning his cheek against his hand, smiling wryly.

“Er,” began the dragoon.

“ _Estinien_.” Aymeric rolled his eyes. “Do not tell me you actually believed I did not notice your state last night. You fair _stunk_ of that horrid Hellsguard spirit. And wintergreen.” He paused. “And you called me ‘Aymeric de Morel’ and told me to show you my mushroom.”

Estinien could feel his skin turning red again. “Um.”

“Then you passed out and left me to finish packing.” Aymeric finished, shaking his head. “You really need to learn how to not let her goad you into drinking games, Estinien. She does it for _fun,_ because she well knows both that you cannot back down from a challenge and that you cannot out drink her.”

“Hmph,” Estinien said, throwing his other arm over his face. Gods, his head hurt.

“Why were you even there, anyway?”

Estinien grunted again. “Had a purchase to make.”

“Purchase?”

The dragoon let out a long sigh. “We were out of arse grease.”

Years ago now, once his and Aymeric’s relationship had finally taken its turn for the physically intimate—and even Estinien had to admit that it had been long enough in coming, pun intended—the Warrior of Light had taken them both aside and cheerfully introduced them to a particular specialty of Hellsguard alchemy. Estinien vividly remembered feeling entirely as if he wished to _die_ during the conversation, but in retrospect, he could not deny how useful it had proven to be. She’d patiently explained that, among her people, such relationships between individuals of the same sex or gender were just as common as those between genders, and thus certain commodities meant to facilitate said relationships were not only easier to find, but far more _deftly engineered_ than their counterparts more readily available in Ishgard. And then she had gifted them what had turned out to be the best personal lubricant they had ever encountered.

Her aunt’s recipe, so they had eventually learned. Apparently she’d made a small fortune off it, and Estinien had to admit that, having used it, he could see why. Since then she’d been only too glad to concoct it for them, and for a very reasonable fee, considering how quickly they tended to go through it. And, Estinien had noticed a scant day before they were due to depart on their trip, they’d had very little of it left.

“Ah.” Aymeric cleared his throat. “I too noticed that we were running low.”

Again, Estinien forced himself to turn his pounding head and look at his partner, who, at this moment, seemed undeniably _sheepish_. An unusual state for the knight.

Aymeric got up and began to rummage through his bag, then produced two of the standard thirty-two onze jars they usually bought. He stacked them on the bedside table and looked at Estinien, who stared at them for much longer than was strictly necessary, then sighed and waved vaguely in the direction of his own bag, which Aymeric dutifully unlaced and searched.

“Huh,” he said as he produced another two thirty-two onze jars. Completely unnecessarily, he added both of them on top of the first two, and the resultant cairn to carnal congress seemed to loom judgmentally over them both.

Estinien started to giggle, then stopped immediately as it sent a chisel-like stab of pain shooting behind his eyeballs.

“But why did she not _tell you_ that I had already—” Aymeric cut himself off. They both knew. She was probably laughing uproariously about it to herself right this very instant from atop her enormous pink chocobo, coins clinking in her pockets as she ambled off on whatever adventure was currently stirring her wanderlust.

Damn that Warrior.

“We-e-ell,” Aymeric began, “we are certainly _amply stocked_. Might you not care to—”

“I have a headache,” Estinien said, and rolled over to face the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A "chest dhalmel" is my Eorzean transliteration of a "chest camel," which is a belly dancing move.)
> 
> I know I know, I definitely owe the next chapter of "The Thief and the Knight" and it has not been forgotten, I assure you. It's in the works. In the meantime, I hope this utter pile of ridiculousness gave you a laugh?


	2. Take Two

The morning saw Estinien at last recovered from his ill-considered alcoholic escapades. Aymeric had spent the better part of the previous evening ensuring that he was both properly fed and watered, and though the dragoon had grumbled most considerably about the lord commander’s _fussing_ , it had indeed paid off. As they headed out toward the sands for a daybreak stroll along the beach, Estinien seemed returned to his normal self: equally gruff, but far less likely to disgorge the contents of his stomach. He even deigned to let Aymeric hold his hand as they meandered down the shore, shoeless, the warm sand pressing between their toes. Aymeric sighed happily. This was exactly what a vacation should be.

“How should you like to pass the rest of the day?” he asked Estinien as they made their way back toward their quarters after breakfast. “Have you a preference?”

The dragoon shrugged. Aymeric sighed in mild, but affectionate, exasperation.

“I would be willing to wager you put no thought into it at all, did you,” he said. “Even though ‘twas you who insisted we come.”

“You need to relax,” Estinien retorted. “Not worry about planning everything, for once.”

Aymeric smiled. “As you wish. In that case I should find it very relaxing to take a nice long walk up to Hidden Falls this afternoon. The rainforest is supposed to be lovely.”

Estinien looked at him sidelong. “Halone spare me, you _did_ plan it all out, didn’t you. Somehow.”

Aymeric smiled wider. “I merely made a list of activities that I believed would be enjoyable. Took naught but twenty minutes of my time.”

Estinien shook his head, but Aymeric could see the smile that pulled at his lips. “Well, in that case—”

“Good morning, my esteemed Ishgardian guests!”

Estinien’s face went white.

“I trust you are feel—oh.” Gegeruju paused, tilting his head back and squinting up at the two of them. Again, he was in the company of his twin miqo’te shadows: P’ebaloh, the secretary or some such position, and D’nezra, the woman with the palm leaf. “Oh dear, ser dragoon, you do not look much recovered at all! Might I sugge— _oh!”_

Aymeric blinked as, suddenly, he found himself entirely alone.

Gegeruju, P’ebaloh, and D’nezra were also blinking, as if they could not believe what they had just witnessed. Aymeric himself cycled through several realizations in rapid succession but the most meaningful of them was the understanding that Estinien had completely abandoned him, and he was now solely at the mercy of the utterly oblivious, if ultimately well-intentioned, lalafellan entrepreneur.

“But where did he go?” Gegeruju mused aloud.

“He jumped,” Aymeric said, flatly.

Both miqo’te women and Gegeruju moved to the edge of the boardwalk and looked down toward the sand.

“Dragoon jump.” Aymeric corrected their collective assumption. He nodded back toward the main section of the resort. “Over there.”

All three of the others turned around to follow his gaze and, sure enough, there was Estinien’s retreating figure, landing lightly upon and subsequently sailing over the thatched roofs of the little village.

“Well! I’d heard of this famous dragoon’s jump, but this is the first I have seen it in use!” Gegeruju said. “Impressive indeed! Though… will he not again be unwell, up in the air like that?”

“I daresay he shall have a consequence of some kind to anticipate,” Aymeric replied, imagining the words he would have for his partner later on. Though it was not as if Estinien’s reaction to Gegeruju’s reappearance was entirely unpredictable. He did rather have a habit of fleeing his problems and leaving Aymeric to deal with whatever he left behind. There had been that whole business with _stealing the Eye of Nidhogg_ , not to mention literally disappearing out the window of his infirmary room after the _incident_ on the Steps of Faith. By comparison, vanishing from his side to avoid Gegeruju was really not much of anything at all, but by this point, it was the _principle_ of the thing.

Oh, they would have words _indeed_.

“Well! Poor man,” Gegeruju shook his head. “He shall be quite disappointed when he finds out he’s once again missed out on the dancers!”

Aymeric felt the blood drain from his own face. “Master Gegeruju, I assure you, there is no need—”

“Nonsense!” The lalafell proprietor waved his hand dismissively. “You were forced to depart before the show had concluded! I simply cannot abide that matters be left as such! Why, what kind of businessman would it make me to leave my customers’ experience incomplete?”

 _One who pays attention to what they actually want_ , Aymeric thought ruefully, and somewhat rather nastily, especially for him. Alas, no matter how desperately he longed to never see the dancers of Costa del Sol perform again, all the long years of his training—some might say indoctrination—in the expectations of Ishgardian etiquette and social maneuvering left him completely unable to refuse the man outright. And so he once more found himself being led to the spot beneath the canopy of the Flying Shark, Dyrstweitz the bartender dutifully at his work behind him, while Gegeruju sent P’ebaloh off to find the young women again.

Aymeric wondered if it were not perhaps _his_ turn to drink himself sick.

P’ebaloh returned rather more quickly than she had yesterday, and surprisingly with only one of the dancers in tow, a miqo’te woman with red-brown chin-length hair and bright amber eyes.

“Master Gegeruju,” she said, “Forgive my brusqueness, but your presence is required elsewhere. I have informed M’tesa here of her duties and she will gather the others.”

“Oh dear, it’s nothing serious I hope!” Gegeruju replied, hopping to his feet. “Deepest apologies, my good ser, do forgive me! I would not expect you to know, of course, but it is quite a demanding business, running a famed seaside resort!”

“I can only imagine,” replied the Lord Speaker of Ishgard’s House of Lords and Lord Commander of her military, dryly.

“I shall leave you in M’tesa and her colleagues’ capable hands, then!” Gegeruju exclaimed before striding off after P’ebaloh, with D’nezra at his heels, fanning her palm leaf.

Aymeric faced the miqo’te woman, taking great care not to let his gaze drop below her chin. She raised an eyebrow at him before turning to wave at the bartender.

“Oi, Dyrstweitz,” she called. “Get me one of the dressing gowns, would you?”

“Anything for you, Tesa,” said the roegadyn. He disappeared below the bar for a moment to retrieve the requested item, then straightened again and tossed it to her. M’tesa shook it out once—it fell to just below her knees—then shoved her arms into the elbow-length sleeves and tied it around her waist.

“Better?” she asked, looking at Aymeric.

“Er…” Aymeric’s cheeks were heating up. Clearly his and Estinien’s discomfort had been perfectly noticeable the previous day, and he could not help but be embarrassed by the fact. “…Aye,” he confessed at last. “That… that helps.”

The young miqo’te woman laughed and flopped into the chair at Aymeric’s left. She swiveled one of her ears toward him and winked. “Look, uh, mister…?”

“Aymeric.”

“Aymeric,” she continued, “it was pretty obvious that dancing ladies are not to you or your boyfriend’s taste.”

“Er.” Aymeric was taken aback. “Uh. Boyfriend?”

“The airsick dragoon?” She eyed him, then lifted one hand and formed an o-shape with her thumb and index finger, then poked the index finger of her other hand through it. “It’s like that with you two, yes?”

“Ah…” Aymeric lifted his eyes to the canopy above them, and prayed his face was not actually as red as it felt. “Er. Well.” He sighed. “…Aye. We are indeed lovers.”

“Thought so,” she replied, nodding. “Honestly, I’d say Gegeruju should have been able to figure it out, but he thought Titan’s earthquakes were caused by stampeding buffalo, so…” She shrugged.

“’Bout as observant as a blind lookout, he is,” came a deep voice from behind him, and Aymeric turned around to find the bartender, Dyrstweitz, organizing garnishes and grinning lopsidedly.

The young miqo’te nodded enthusiastically. “Bless his little Ul’dahn heart,” she said. Both of them laughed.

“I’m M’tesa,” she said, reaching out her hand. Aymeric dutifully shook it, feeling only a little out of sorts. “I’m supposed to be entertaining you, Master Gegeruju’s orders, but I promise not to subject you to any more dancing.”

“That is… appreciated,” Aymeric said, feeling every bit the hopeless prude he assumed they had judged him to be.

“Where is your boyfriend, anyway?” M’tesa asked, looking around. “He still sick?”

“Estinien? No.” Aymeric smiled wryly. “Last I saw him, he was fine. He took one look at Gegeruju and decided he would rather be elsewhere. You may have even seen him, hopping along the rooftops.”

“O-o-h, so that _was_ him,” M’tesa said. “Thought it might have been, but he was gone so fast.”

Aymeric snorted, but there was a deep fondness in it. Estinien was what he was. “Doubtless he shall return whenever he feels good and ready.”

M’tesa laughed and waved to Dyrstweitz again. “Oi, care to mix up one of those coconut things for me?” she called.

“Drinking on the job, are we?” the roegadyn replied, a cheeky grin on his face. “Tsk, tsk, Tesa.”

“You’re one to talk,” she retorted. “You want one too, Mister Aymeric?”

“What is this ‘coconut thing?’” he asked.

“Rum and coconut milk with fruit juice,” Dyrstweitz answered. “Perfect for a day at the beach, ‘n’ a sight better ‘n that shite wine Gegeruju gave you yesterday.”

Aymeric choked back a laugh, then nodded. “All right, I shall take one. And put the young lady’s drink on my tab, as well.”

M’tesa perked both her ears and grinned. “What a gentleman!”

Aymeric hoped the slight heat in his cheeks was not a visible blush. “Erm, consider it an apology of sorts. I doubt not that Estinien and I were a rather disappointing audience yesterday.”

“Oh no, quite the opposite!” she insisted. “I don’t think we’ve ever made a man vomit before. I’m gonna write my cousin about it for sure.”

 _Oh dear_ , Aymeric thought. Well, at least she seemed to find the whole incident amusing instead of insulting. Thank Halone for small mercies.

“Drink up, my friends,” Dyrstweitz announced, setting both of their cocktails on the bar. Aymeric had never seen anything quite like the colorful concoction—bright orange and creamy with a lavish garnish of cherries, pineapple slices, and rolanberries, with a tiny pink paper umbrella stuck on top. He sipped at it gingerly and was pleasantly surprised. Very pleasantly surprised. Rich and refreshing and sweet, but not too sweet, with just a hint of spiced warmth at the end… he had never tried anything like it before and it was _delicious_. Delicious, and, he suspected, _dangerous_. He made a mental note to drink in extreme moderation.

“So what do you do in Ishgard, Mister Aymeric?” M’tesa asked. She had shifted to sit cross-legged on her chair, her bright eyes watching him curiously. “Gegeruju’s always excited to get Ishgardians at the resort. Says you lot must be desperate for some sun.”

Aymeric could not help but laugh. “’Tis true,” he replied. “I fear Ishgard is a rather dismal place by comparison, cold and snowy most of the year.” He took another sip of his drink—gods, it really was quite shockingly good—and hesitated a bit before answering her question. “As for my normal occupation… I am a knight.”

Immediately M’tesa brightened. “A knight! How—” She stopped, and something seemed to occur to her. “Wait—were you at Ala Mhigo?”

Aymeric inclined his head. “Aye. I fought in Gyr Abania and in the assault on Ala Mhigo.”

“I’m from Gyr Abania!” she exclaimed happily. “Well, I was born there. My mother left with me when I was little, before Baelsar’s Wall went up. I don’t remember much of it.”

“Many of your people indeed fled the Empire’s cruelty,” Aymeric replied. “If I recall, the M tribe calls the Peering Stones in The Fringes its home, does it not?”

M’tesa nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Mama told me all kinds of stories! Have you been there?”

Aymeric returned her nod. “Aye, I spent some few weeks in that area as the Alliance’s army prepared for the liberation effort. M’naago Rahz was a key leader of the Resistance and her father, M’rahz Nunh was a staunch ally to our efforts as well.”

M’tesa clapped her hands together, nearly spilling her drink in doing so. “M’naago’s my sister!” she said. “M’razh Nunh is my father, as well. Oh, please, would you tell me about them—wait!” She jumped up. “Wait, J’nisi and Eydith are Gyr Abanian, too, they’d love to hear about your time there. I’ll be right back!”

She dashed off down the boardwalk and was gone.

Behind him, Aymeric heard Drystweitz chuckle. “Now you’ve gone and done it,” he said. “They’ll have you talking all day.”

Aymeric smiled. “’Tis no hardship, truly. She seems like a lovely young lady.”

“Aye,” Dyrstweitz agreed. “Tesa’s a delight.” After a pause he added, “Bloody fantastic dancer, too.”

“Er, ah… certainly.”

  
* * * * *

  
Estinien sat atop the jutting headland that overlooked Costa del Sol from the south. Crouched on his haunches, he scowled down at the seaside resort, his brows so deeply furrowed he might have been able to hold a gil piece pinched in the crease between them. He hadn’t meant to desert Aymeric earlier, not really, it was just that… as soon as he’d seen that little lalafell sauntering up with his turban and his tiny retinue of half-naked women all his blood had run cold and sheer, panicked _instinct_ had taken over. He hadn’t even thought about it, he’d simply shot into the sky, the screaming need to put as much distance between him and the proprietor of Costa del Sol overriding everything else, including his sense of obligation to his partner.

Now, sulking on the rocks, he knew he was avoiding facing the fallout. Aymeric would be rightfully annoyed and gods, if there was one thing Estinien hated more than being cornered into watching an unasked-for _sexual pantomime_ —because that was what that “dancing show” had actually been, euphemisms be damned—it was disappointing Aymeric. He’d done quite enough of that in his life already.

What he needed to do was go back, find Aymeric, and apologize. Surely by now Gegeruju would have long since gone off to do whatever sorts of things the owner of a beach resort needed to do, leaving Aymeric to his own devices, which would be… what? Estinien wasn’t sure. When they were at home he tended to spend the laughably little free time he usually had doing things like cooking or crushing Estinien at chess or playing the piano… badly, because he practiced about once every other moon.

Or… dancing. He did actually very much like to dance.

But not like _that_.

Estinien huffed. He knew Aymeric at least hadn’t attempted to go to Hidden Falls on his own, because from this vantage point he could clearly see the road and Aymeric had not set foot upon it. Therefore, he still had to be at the resort. So with a sigh Estinien stood and leaped from his perch, gracefully plummeting from the high rock face to land at the edge of the boardwalk below, pointedly ignoring the startled gasps from the various onlookers. Dusting himself off, he began to search for his partner, and… found him surprisingly quickly.

Estinien’s jaw dropped.

There he was, all right, that was Aymeric—beautiful, inimitable Aymeric, with his thick, softly-curling, jet-black hair and his high, sculpted cheekbones and his full, perfect lips pulled back in a smile—aye. That was Aymeric, sitting in front of the bar, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and buttons undone somewhat farther down his chest than Estinien was comfortable with at the moment, heat be damned, because— _because_ —that was Aymeric, _his_ Aymeric, _completely surrounded by women_.

Five of them.

_The dancers._

Estinien was absolutely, positively sure that was who they were. True, he hadn’t taken a good look at them the previous day—he’d really done his best to avoid doing that—but there were three miqo’te and two hyur, and he was quite certain that the one miqo’te with the red-brown bob and the blonde hyur with the ponytail had been the two he’d pushed his way between to go throw up off the edge of the deck, oh gods. Though—Halone be praised—all of them were at least wearing decently-covering clothing, this time. However, that was only the smallest possible improvement, as far as Estinien was concerned, because all five of them sat, _utterly rapt_ , elbows on their knees, chins in their hands, eyes wide and fixed on Aymeric, who was clearly telling some kind of story. He was talking quite animatedly, face lit up like a tree at Starlight, one hand gesturing periodically, and the other holding some kind of drink, nearly drained. A fruity, froofy cocktail by the looks of it, actually and—oh. Oh _Fury_ , and by the pile of glassware on the table, he’d had…

Estinien blinked.

He’d had a _lot_.

Slowly, the dragoon crept closer. Aymeric took a sip of his drink and continued with whatever tale he was telling.

“…So then after perhaps half a bell, Ser Athélain hobbled back to camp, forced to confess that in his haste and in the dark, he had sat in a great patch of thistles and stinging nettles, and thus had to lie on his belly all evening with a cooling poultice on his arse while we pulled all the spines out.”

All five of the women roared with laughter. Estinien remembered this story from their early days in the Temple Knights. Ser Athélain had grown up in Ishgard and hardly set foot beyond the city walls prior to his service. Nonetheless, he’d been inclined to insist he possessed peerless knowledge of the Coerthan wilds, with consistently predictable results. In the particular incident that Aymeric was relating, he had one evening decided to eat several handfuls of green risonberries, a Lowlands delicacy that were quite delicious when ripened to their full purple, but quite prone to causing torrential diarrhea when not, as the good ser had learned about forty minutes later. In his haste to relieve himself, Ser Athélain had run off into the dark and managed to shit his guts out into the forenamed patch of thistles and stinging nettles. He’d not been able to sit properly for two whole days.

Estinien was trying to decide whether to be amused at the memory or remain upset at the enthralled attention Aymeric was receiving from the dancers when a voice at his shoulder nearly sent him jumping straight into The Flying Shark’s awning. “Your boyfriend’s made quiet an impression, I must say.”

He whirled around to find the roegadyn bartender leaning against the bar, eyebrows raised. “Charmed ‘em half to death, he has.”

“My… _what?”_ Estinien demanded.

The bartender visibly rolled his eyes. “Listen, ‘twas obvious you two ain’t just friends, know what I mean? ‘Sides,” he tilted his head toward Aymeric, “he confirmed it.”

Estinien glanced back over toward Aymeric. Boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. Was that how they thought of the two of them? He hated it.

“Tell us more about the liberation of Ala Mhigo, Mister Aymeric!” one of the ladies—the hyur with the ponytail—asked. “Were you in the assault on the city?”

One of the miqo’te groaned. “Eydith, he talked for half a bell about Ala Mhigo! Maybe he’s sick of it, yeah?”

Eydith blushed, lowering her gaze so that her thick, honey-brown eyelashes brushed her cheeks. “Sorry, T’yekhu. I just… I was born there, but I’ve never _been_ there, y’know?”

Aymeric chuckled in his rich, velvety voice, and as much of an effect as it always had on Estinien, he fancied he could quite clearly see the effect it equally had on all five of the young women sitting before his lover, and he did _not_ like that. He did not like that one bit.

“’Tis no bother for me at all,” Aymeric said. “Well can I understand the desire to know more about one’s origins. To answer your question, aye, I fought in the assault on the city.” He met Eydith’s eyes with his own intense and striking gaze, and Estinien could have sworn the young woman nearly swooned in her seat.

Oh, that was _quite_ enough of that.

Estinien stalked up to the group, crossing his arms, shooting a withering glance down at Aymeric.

“’Fought in’?” he quoted. “You led the bloody assault on Ala Mhigo, _Lord Commander_.”

Estinien immediately regretted having divulged Aymeric’s title—well, one of his several—for though all the dancers’ eyes had flicked to him as soon as he’d revealed himself, the moment he spoke the words “lord commander,” they all returned their attention to Aymeric, if anything more intently than before.

“’Lord Commander’?” the miqo’te with the bob asked, eyebrows raised.

“Ah…” Aymeric glanced sidelong up at Estinien. “…Aye. Well.” He cleared his throat. “That is indeed my position in the Temple Knights.”

“I thought your name sounded familiar!” came the voice from behind the bar. They all turned to look at the huge roegadyn bartender, who was finishing up the garnishes on a set of cocktails. “Bloody Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, right here in my bar! My ol’ dad would have a field day if he was here. No wonder Gegeruju is keen on you as an Ul’dahn businessman.” He paused. “Well, er, I guess he _is_ an Ul’dahn businessman. Anyroad. Uh, here’s your next round of drinks!”

He offered a glass to Aymeric, but Estinien aggressively batted his hand away. “Absolutely _not_ ,” he snarled. He pointed to all the empty glasses on the table. “You are _cut off_ , Aymeric.”

Everybody looked at him.

“Those were ours,” one of the dancers said. She nodded at Aymeric. “He’s still on his first.”

Aymeric sipped primly at the last of his cocktail and lifted an eyebrow at Estinien. “ _Some_ of us know how to drink responsibly, my dear.”

“You feeling any better today, Mister Estinien?” asked Eydith as she accepted her new drink from the bartender.

Estinien tried to tell himself his face was only so hot because of the weather. “’M fine,” he mumbled.

“’Tis kind of you to join us,” Aymeric said, in a voice so casually neutral that Estinien immediately knew he’d been correct in his earlier guess—Aymeric was indeed quite annoyed with him. “I feared it might be quite some time before you returned, and I would be forced to further impose upon all these lovely ladies to keep me company in your absence.”

“Oh, it’s no imposition at all!” said the other hyur woman cheerfully. “Your stories are just the best, Mister Aymeric!”

Estinien glared down at his lover, who only smiled serenely in response.

“Oh, but where are my manners?” Aymeric said. He gestured toward Estinien with one hand. “This is Estinien. I am certain you remember him well from yesterday.”

“Quite well!” one of the miqo’te said. Estinien only marginally wanted to die.

“Now, let me introduce you to my new friends,” Aymeric continued. He indicated to the blonde hyur with the ponytail. “This is Eydith. Her family is originally from Ala Mhigo, and fled after it fell to the Empire, as did M’tesa’s—” he nodded at the miqo’te with the red-brown bob “—and J’nisi’s.” J’nisi was another miqo’te with deep blue-green hair braided back against her head. All the Ala Mhigans smiled cheerfully at Aymeric, who smiled warmly back in a manner that made Estinien want to grind his teeth, before pointing to the second hyur woman, whose dark hair curled tightly into lovely corkscrews. “Golderyn is originally from Ul’dah, and T’yekhu—” that was the third miqo’te; her purple hair was piled on top of her head in a stylishly disheveled chignon “—hails from the Shroud. And of course I could not forget our peerless bartender here, Dyrstweitz, whose father and grandfather were both among House Dzemael’s famed roegadyn knights.”

“That they were, aye,” Dyrstweitz said, handing Aymeric his second drink. This time Estinien did not bother to try and interfere.

“Nice to meet you for real, Mister Estinien,” said M’tesa.

“We saw you go by this morning on the rooftop,” added Golderyn.

“Mister Aymeric’s told us about how you were knights together,” said J’nisi.

“Why don’t you tell us about yourself?” asked T’yekhu.

“Yeah!” Eydith clapped her hands together excitedly. “What about you Mister Estinien? Tell us about yourself!”

Estinien took an unconscious half-step backwards at the barrage. Five pairs of eyes were now set rather intently upon him, and he looked desperately toward Aymeric for… what? Help? Sympathy? After his disappearing act that morning, he was fairly certain neither would be forthcoming, and with the way Aymeric was focused on his drink, avoiding Estinien’s gaze entirely, it would seem he was very much correct.

“Er,” Estinien began.

“Something I should mention,” Aymeric interjected, as relief flooded Estinien, “and that I am doubtless you all shall be able to appreciate,” he continued, “is that, despite any appearance to the contrary yesterday, Estinien here is quite a fine dancer.”

Estinien’s relief evaporated, replaced with horror.

“Truly?” M’tesa asked. All five of the women turned their heads to look at him, interest very much piqued.

“ _No_ ,” Estinien snapped. “Have you gone mad, Aymeric? _You’re_ the one who loves to dance!”

The moment the words left his mouth he knew them to be a mistake. One he had been intentionally set up to make.

The dancers’ attention returned to Aymeric.

“Really?” Eydith said. Her eyes lit up with purest delight.

Aymeric lowered his gaze demurely—gods, he was good at this—and smiled bashfully. “Well, ‘tis true, I do rather enjoy dancing, myself. Though Ishgardian dances are, ah, quite different from those of the type you perform.”

“Oh, but would you show us?” J’nisi asked, leaning forward. “We love to see new dances!”

Aymeric pretended to consider the request. “Ah, but how could I possibly refuse? You have all been so kind to keep me company in my solitude this morning.” Estinien considered snatching Aymeric’s drink right out of his hand and dumping it all over his black-haired head. “Though Ishgard’s dances tend to be partner dances, requiring two in order to be correctly performed.” A beatific smile settled on his lips as he looked toward Estinien. “Would you deign to humor me, my dear?”

The dragoon scowled ferociously and crossed his arms. “Absolutely not.”

Aymeric sighed. “...Ah. Well, seeing as Estinien here seems unwilling, I suppose I shall have to impose upon one of you lovely ladies to—”

Oh, no. _No no_ —

“ _No_ ,” Estinien interrupted.

Aymeric blinked up at him. “Oh? Have you changed your mind, then?”

Estinien glared with what he hoped was intensity enough to burn the saintly smile right off Aymeric’s face, but the knight remained utterly unmoved.

“I have,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I’ll dance with you, _Aymeric_.”

“Splendid,” Aymeric replied, immune to Estinien’s tone of voice. He deposited his drink on the table and stood, offering the dragoon his hand. Estinien took it, still scowling. “We shall need a bit more space than what is available here, I fear. Will you not accompany us to the beach?”

“Of course!” T’yekhu said brightly.

As Aymeric led them down the boardwalk to the sand, Estinien took the opportunity to hiss, “You _arsehole_.”

That angelic smile turned insufferably smug. “You deserve it,” Aymeric hissed back.

Once they were all gathered on the beach, Aymeric turned to Estinien, his smile again gone sweet enough to rot the teeth straight out of your head. Estinien tried not to think about all the people watching them—not just the dancers, now, but at least a dozen other sunbathers sending interested glances toward their odd little party.

“This is called a foxtrot,” Aymeric said, and Estinien groaned inwardly. Of course Aymeric would have to pick one of the most difficult dances.

“Can’t we just do a waltz?” he asked under his breath.

“No,” Aymeric replied. “Closed position, if you would.” Estinien huffed but did as he was asked, placing his left hand on Aymeric’s arm and turning his head to one side while Aymeric grasped his right and held it outward. “Five, six, seven, and—”

He swept them both into the rolling, swinging rhythm of the foxtrot, a weave up the beach and a feather step down, natural turns, promenades, reverse turns… it was all Estinien could do to keep up, and he was certain he looked the stumbling fool next to Aymeric’s long-practiced grace. By the time they were finished, his face was beet red, flushed with embarrassment, and _of course_ Aymeric couldn’t resist a final flourish, twirling them both in place before dropping Estinien into a deep backward bend and placing a sweet little kiss right on his lips. In public.

“Love you, _darling_ ,” he said. Estinien could have just killed him.

He managed to wrest himself upright, still blushing furiously, only to find all five of the dancers clapping enthusiastically, and joined by more than a few of the random onlookers as well.

“That was fantastic!” Golderyn called, and her colleagues all nodded, voicing their agreement. Aymeric offered them a jaunty little bow while Estinien briefly contemplated once again simply hurling himself into the heavens, never to return.

“You just _have_ to teach us!” Eydith said, to shouts of concurrence from the four other dancers. “It looks like so much fun!”

Beside him, Estinien felt Aymeric stiffen, and though he had no desire whatsoever to see his partner dancing with anyone at Costa del Sol, Estinien couldn’t prevent a smug shot of amusement, knowing that Aymeric’s little game hadn’t gone entirely to plan.

“Er, well…” Aymeric began.

“Tesa!” a bellowing voice called. It was Dyrstweitz, leaning over the boardwalk railing, waving down at them. “Just got word from P’ebaloh, Gegeruju’s looking for you lot! Something about a show this afternoon?”

All five of the dancers groaned in unison. “Ugh, but this is so much more fun!” J’nisi said. Golderyn and Eydith nodded forlornly.

“Well, guess we’d best be off, then,” T’yekhu said. She stepped forward and curtsied politely, and M’tesa, Eydith, Golderyn, and J’nisi all followed suit.

“It’s been great talking with you, Mister Aymeric!” Eydith said, smiling. “Thank you so much for your stories of Ala Mhigo! It…” She blushed a little and looked toward the ground. “It means a lot, yeah?”

M’tesa put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder, then looked up at both the elezen, and nodded. “It does mean a lot. We appreciate it.” J’nisi nodded as well.

“’Twas my pleasure,” Aymeric said. His voice had changed ever so slightly, and Estinien could tell he meant it.

“Well, have a good afternoon,” M’tesa said, and the five dancers turned and trotted off back to the boardwalk, leaving Aymeric and Estinien alone.

The petty lovers eyed each other a long moment. Estinien frowned.

“Did you _have_ to—”

“Did _you_ have to?” Aymeric countered, raising his eyebrows.

Estinien sighed. “No,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

Aymeric laced his fingers through Estinien’s. “Shall we call it even?”

“Aye.” Estinien paused. “Lunch?”

“Lunch,” Aymeric agreed. They made their way back toward the boardwalk, stomachs growling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ser Athélain's tale of woe is inspired by a true story involving food poisoning, a cactus, and a roll of duct tape, which fortunately did not happen to me, but one of my much-less-fortunate colleagues.
> 
> 2\. Passive-aggressive Aymeric was far more fun to write than he had any right to be.
> 
> 3\. I hope this makes you smile. ♥


	3. Third Time's a Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change!
> 
> ...Look, some of their vacation had to be an actual vacation, and not just a series of unfortunate events.

They spent a pleasant, lazy afternoon on the beach, enjoying the sun and warm weather, though Aymeric noticed that Estinien was even quieter and more reserved than normal—still sulking a bit over the morning, he figured. It made him smile, stirring a deep fondness that tightened the breath in his chest, and, admittedly, provoked a twinge of guilt that perhaps he had pushed it a bit too far with their very public foxtrot.

Fortunately, he had an idea.

That evening, as the last light of the sun was fading behind the mountains to the west, he looked out the window of their room and put to Estinien a suggestion.

“Shall we go for a walk?”

Estinien frowned up at him from where he sat. “’Tis nearly dark,” he said.

Aymeric shook his head. “The moon is nigh full, there is plenty of light by which to see.” He half-smiled. “Besides, we never did make it to Hidden Falls.”

“You can’t possibly want to go that whole way at this hour.”

“Mayhap not so far,” Aymeric agreed, “but up the beach, instead. Please?” He held out his hands to his lover, palms up.

Estinien sighed most long-sufferingly. “Fine,” he said, allowing Aymeric to pull him to his feet.

The shore was deserted, most of the resort’s guests having retired to the restaurants or their own rooms. Aymeric marveled at how warm it still was, even after sundown. It seemed a lifetime ago now since such a night had graced northern Coerthas, though it had not quite been a decade since the Calamity that had so altered their homeland’s weather. Once, an evening like this would not have been entirely unusual during the height of the summer months, but now those months meant merely that one could be about with naught but a light jacket instead of a full coat and scarf. It felt a luxury indeed to amble along in summer sandals and a simple shirt and trousers, mild air warm on their skin.

At the rock formations that demarcated the north end of the beach, Estinien made as if to turn around and go back, but Aymeric searched for a handhold, wedged his foot into the stone, and began to haul himself up.

“Are you rock climbing in the dark?” Oh, he could hear the exasperation in Estinien’s voice.

“Aye,” Aymeric replied. Behind him, Estinien harrumphed gruffly, then Aymeric felt the wind whistle through his hair. He glanced up to find Estinien perched on the very top of the rocks, looking to the landscape beyond.

“Huh, there’s a cove down here,” he said.

Aymeric smiled as he scrambled to catch up to his dragoon. “Aye,” he replied, finally making it to the top.

Estinien eyed him. “How did you know?”

“The dancers told me,” he answered, smiling. “’Twas recommended to me as a—how did they put it?—a ‘good date spot.’”

Estinien snorted. He jumped again, landing in the sand with a light thump, as Aymeric began to pick his way down to the little beach.

The tiny cove was just as isolated as it had been described it to him, blocked on all sides by high, ragged rocks that stretched out into the sea, forming a series of tide pools along the shore to the north and the east. So protected was it from the open ocean, even compared to the placid beaches closer to the resort, that the waves were barely a whisper, a simple slide up and down the sand. High tide had been earlier in the afternoon, and now the water was steadily sinking lower, exposing the shellfish and anemones that called the pools home.

Once down to ground level, Aymeric kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of it and depositing it on the dry sand.

“What are you doing?” Estinien asked.

“What does it look like?” he replied as he also shucked his loose trousers and the shorts beneath them. Naked, he trotted toward the gentle surf, ignoring the strangled noises Estinien was making behind him. He waded out into the warm sea up to his waist and turned to face his lover, who was watching with his arms crossed. It was difficult to tell in the dark, even by the light of the very bright moon, but Aymeric fancied he could also see the frown creasing Estinien’s face.

The sight made him grin like a boy. “Do not tell me you have grown squeamish of a little skinny dipping in your old age, Estinien!” he called. “Or shall I remind you of all the times that we had to bathe in a river while on patrol?”

Estinien tilted his head to one side and said nothing in reply. After a moment he began to undress, pulling off his shoes, lifting his own shirt over his head and tossing it to the ground. Aymeric watched intently, thoroughly enjoying the steady reveal of Estinien’s scarred skin and muscular body. He had stolen such glances years ago, discreetly, when he had been convinced that his romantic interest in his friend was unreturned and unrequited. Even all this time later, it still felt an indescribable privilege to be able to openly watch, to flaunt his desire and know it for something welcomed.

Fully nude, Estinien began to make his way to where Aymeric stood, out in the sea. In the moonlight the defined lines of Estinien’s chest and abdomen were illuminated and shadowed in sharp contrast; his white hair pearlescent. To Aymeric, there was no more beautiful sight than this, no other with whom he wished to share his body or his heart. He had told Estinien many times, but perhaps after the morning, the dragoon could do with a reminder.

Close now to where Aymeric stood, also waist-deep in the sea, Estinien’s wry expression was evident, his lips pursed and his eyebrow raised.

“Happy?”

“Very,” Aymeric said, grabbing his hips and pulling him into an eager kiss. Estinien made a muffled sound of surprise that quickly morphed into a soft, pleased hum, and Aymeric released him with a quiet laugh, nuzzling along the line of his jaw.

“Thanks to a most unfortunate hangover, we have not yet had much chance for this,” he said, smiling against his lover’s skin. “I would rectify that, personally.”

Estinien made a little noise. “Was _this_ your plan all along?” he asked.

“Aye,” Aymeric answered. “Do you have an objection?”

“’Tis difficult to think of one when— _ah_ —when you’re… when you’re doing…” He trailed off with a sigh.

What Aymeric was doing was running his tongue up Estinien’s earlobe and along the cartilage toward its fine point while he let his hands wander lower to gently squeeze the curve of his backside. Not that one could get much squeeze out of Estinien’s backside. The man had an arse like a marble sculpture, Halone be praised, and Aymeric was quite happy to worship before that altar every chance he got. Estinien busied his own hands sliding up Aymeric’s back, spreading the warm salt water over his skin. The sea swirled around them, sliding into every gap between them even as they moved to stand ever closer, thigh to thigh. It gave the moment an extra enticing touch of the alluring, stirring Aymeric’s blood further. He was already halfway to a full erection, and by the persistent poke he felt just below his navel, he could tell that Estinien was essentially already there.

“Eager, are you not, my love?” he murmured.

“You set me up,” Estinien retorted. He bent his head to suck at the curve where Aymeric’s neck met his shoulder, sending a shudder through the knight. “Much like this morning.”

Aymeric laughed. “I daresay you prefer this to—” he cut off abruptly with a gasp as Estinien grabbed his cock and began to stroke it.

“Hmph.” Estinien’s grunt of reply held a definite note of smugness. “I daresay you’re correct, Borel.”

Aymeric managed a breathy laugh in return, then reached to wrap his own hand around Estinien’s firm erection. In the water, the feel and friction of it was alien. They had fucked in the bath before, but never the sea, never with the gentle rise and fall of the swells surrounding them, pushing them to lean and sway. Nigh unconsciously, both their hands found their rhythm with the soft but steady current, grinding their lengths together, fingertips each brushing the inside of the other’s wrist along with every knowing caress. Estinien hooked his free arm around Aymeric’s waist, digging into his side to hold him in place, and Aymeric tangled his hand into Estinien’s long hair to pull him into another deep kiss, the brine of his mouth sharp and seductive on his tongue. Like this they worked themselves, swept up in the simple shared pleasure of their bodies.

Aymeric could feel the heat building at the base of him, growing pressure and anticipation, as Estinien’s rough and experienced grip steadily drew him toward orgasm. When those wicked fingers gently but firmly toyed with his foreskin, fully exposing the bare head of his cock to the warm ocean at the same moment that Estinien ground their hips hard together, his control broke and he came, the motion of his hand faltering as he shuddered and moaned with the force of it. Estinien clasped his own hand around Aymeric’s, guiding it up and down in a few more aggressive strokes before he too climaxed, tossing his head to one side and choking back a cry into the night. Panting, spent, they sagged together, faces pressed into each other’s shoulders, letting the salt water buoy them as they caught their breath.

“’Twas good?” Aymeric asked, rubbing a little circle into the small of Estinien’s back.

“’Twas good.” Estinien hummed contentedly. “’Tis nice not to have to clean up, for once.”

“Fish food,” Aymeric replied, to a bark of laughter. The dragoon pushed back a little and met Aymeric’s gaze with his own.

“Cheeky,” he said.

Aymeric smiled and wrapped his arms around Estinien’s neck, leaning forward to kiss him again. Estinien leaned backwards, just out of range of his lips, forcing Aymeric to chase him for the kiss, until…

“Gotcha!” Estinien clamped his arms around Aymeric’s waist in a vice grip and pulled them both down into the water. 

Spluttering, Aymeric wrestled himself free of the treacherous dragoon and tried to stand again, but Estinien managed to reclaim his hold and stood, tossing Aymeric over his shoulder like he had threatened to before they left Ishgard.

“Oh and what have I claimed for myself, then?” he crowed, spinning around in place. “An Ishgardian lord, naked as a sheared ewe and entirely at my mercy!”

“Release me, you feral Coerthan!” Aymeric pounded his fist on Estinien’s shoulder blade, poorly feigning indignation, laughing the whole time.

“I think not,” Estinien replied. “I won my prize and I intend to keep it.” He smacked Aymeric on the arse hard enough to sting.

“ _Ah!_ Well, if such ministrations are the price of capture, perhaps I can learn to accept my fate,” Aymeric said. He tried to crane his head around to look at his own backside. “Mayhap it shall leave a mark.”

Estinien snorted and dumped him back into the water. “Try not to sound so desperately hopeful, Aymeric.”

They horsed around together a while, gleeful as a pair of colts. They raced each other through the water, moonlight reflecting silver trails across the sea. Estinien had the clear advantage as a swimmer, having grown up spending summers amongst the myriad creeks and ponds of the Eastern Highlands. Aymeric gave it his best effort, but when he could not overtake his lover, he grabbed him by the ankle and pulled himself even, instead.

“You bloody cheat,” Estinien accused, laughing, slapping his hand across the water’s surface to send a jet of it into Aymeric’s face. The knight laughed back, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and lunged forward to grab Estinien’s arms, this time getting his kiss in before his lover could dunk him again.

“Before we return, there is something I wish to show you,” he said.

Estinien raised his eyebrows, but nodded, intrigued. “All right,” he replied.

Aymeric made for the north end of the shore, swimming a lazy breaststroke until it was easier to stand, then he waded through the shallows to where the rocks met the water’s edge.

“Should be along here somewhere,” he murmured, following the line of stone. “Aye, here we are.” He crossed his arms and smiled, waiting for Estinien to catch up. Eventually, he heard the tell-tale splashing footfalls behind him, and Estinien appeared at his shoulder.

“…Oh,” he said.

Before them, well-hidden by a jutting overhang, was a large pool that had been exposed by the receding tide. According to the dancers, there were a number of these particular pools along the northern rock formations, all connected underground by lengths of tunnels, and at night, at low tide, when they could be safely approached, a curious onlooker would be treated to a most unique and beautiful sight.

“Moon jellies,” Aymeric said.

It was easy to see how the little jellyfish had earned their name. In the dark, they pulsed with a glimmering white light exactly like their namesake. The school of them lit up the black water of the tide pool with their gentle glow, each one haloed in brightest blue as it floated through the depths.

“They are like you,” Aymeric said, turning to nuzzle into Estinien’s long white hair, now wet and roped with seawater. “Moonlight and azure.”

Estinien scoffed but reached to pull him close.

“Did the dancers tell you about this, too?” he asked.

“Aye,” Aymeric answered. “Forgive my earlier evasiveness, I wished to surprise you.”

“Hmph,” Estinien said, but Aymeric could hear the smile in it. “’Tis quite lovely.”

In silence, they simply watched, transfixed by the slow drift of the jellies through the pool; pale lanterns in the depths. The only sounds were those of the shore around them, the steady swish of the mild waves and the stirring of the ocean breeze through all the nooks of the rock. Even the gulls were quiet at this hour, the bright, delicate night seeming to hold all the world in gentle thrall.

Eventually Aymeric felt Estinien shift against him, rolling his head to one side to stretch his neck and shoulders. The soft wind felt noticeably cooler than it had when they had first made their way to the secret beach, and Aymeric shivered suddenly, feeling the gooseflesh rise on his bare skin.

“We should probably return,” he said, and Estinien nodded his agreement. They splashed back through the light surf to where they had left their clothing on the beach, grimacing a little at dressing over their damp, salty skin.

“We’ll both need a bath,” Estinien said, wringing out his hair over the sand.

“Indeed we shall,” Aymeric agreed. “Fortunately, I do believe the basin in our washroom is more than adequate to fit the two of us together.”

“Are you offering to wash my hair?” Estinien asked as they began to make their way south, toward the rocks they had earlier scaled to access the hidden cove.

“Perhaps,” Aymeric replied. “Are you, by chance, offering anything yourself, my dear?”

Estinien grinned at him. “Perhaps,” he repeated. “Is there something you would like?”

“We do find ourselves in possession of quite a robust supply of personal lubricant,” Aymeric said. “I would like to put it to good use.”

Estinien grinned wider. “Such ministrations could be the price of your capture.”

Aymeric lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, could they?”

“I don’t see why not,” Estinien replied. Without warning, he again grabbed Aymeric and heaved him over his shoulder, then shot up into the sky and over the rocks, his knight’s indignation somewhat less feigned, this time.

  
* * * * *

  
The next morning found Estinien in an excellent mood as they made their way down the boardwalk to find some breakfast. In particular, he was deeply admiring of his lover’s entirely normal and unaffected gait. He did generally find watching Aymeric move to be an enjoyable experience, but today his even, graceful strides were extra impressive to behold because he’d spent most of the rest of the previous night enthusiastically riding Estinien like an unbroken chocobo. Accordingly, although the first two days of their sojourn had gotten them off to a less-than-ideal start, Estinien felt very confident that in the aftermath of yesterday’s extremely enjoyable activities, things were definitely looking up. He was even willing to extend a degree of magnanimity toward the dancers for having told Aymeric about the hidden cove. Aye, all things considered, Estinien was for once feeling remarkably charitable toward the world at large. Or he was, until—

“Why, a lovely morning to both of you, good sers!”

 _Not again._ Twelve damn that oblivious, idiot lalafell. Estinien’s eyes darted to Aymeric’s and he clenched his teeth, fighting the instinct that told him ‘twould simply be easier to flee, forcing both his feet to stay firmly, if reluctantly, upon the ground.

Next to him, Aymeric sighed.

“Good morning to you, as well, Master Gegeru—” he began.

“Master Gegeruju!”

A third voice—familiar, but Estinien couldn’t place it—interrupted them. He looked toward the sound and recognized the speaker—what was her name? ‘Twas one of the dancers. The hyur with the curly black hair. Golderyn?

“Ah, Golderyn, my dear!” Gegeruju confirmed Estinien’s memory. “What brings you to me this morn?”

“We need you to review our schedule for the fortnight, sir!” she called cheerfully. “P’ebaloh says it can’t be put off any longer!”

“Ah, but of course, of course!” He flashed an apologetic smile to Aymeric and Estinien. “Forgive my abruptness, my Ishgardian friends, but duty calls, I’m sure you understand!”

And he was gone.

Estinien exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

“Well, that was rather unexpected,” Aymeric said. He glanced toward Estinien and smiled. “Not unwelcome, though.”

“I am not inclined to look at this gift chocobo’s claws too closely,” Estinien replied.

“Agreed,” said Aymeric. He smiled sweetly. “If we wish to continue to avoid our lalafellan thorn in the side, perhaps after we eat we should take that walk to Hidden Falls that we meant to yesterday?”

Estinien smiled back. “Sounds like a plan.”

So off they later went, up to the road north, toward the rainforest and a peaceful, unhurried morning. Estinien knew that Aymeric had always had a soft spot for the woods, perhaps a result of his childhood spent largely in stone-and-steel Ishgard, and even the dragoon had to admit that the dense, quiet canopy of Raincatcher Gully did inspire awe. Huge, ancient trees spread their branches over lush ferns and bright, blooming flowers, while the little river teemed with fish and frogs, its waters clear as glass. Leisurely walking the deserted trails side-by-side they passed the time until the changing light told them it was getting on toward afternoon. Back in Costa del Sol, they were searching for a good lunch option when they were again interrupted by Gegeruju’s unmistakable voice.

“My esteemed Ishgardian guests!” he belted out with a smile. “I have been—”

“Oh, Master Gegeruju!” this time it was a different, though again oddly familiar voice, that came to their rescue. It turned out to be M’tesa, one of the miqo’te. She trotted up to them. “I’ve been looking all over for you! We’ve got some designs for new costumes, see, and they need a quick turnaround, so you must of course inspect them!”

Gegeruju looked distinctly flustered. “Ah, yes, but of course, M’tesa, my dear, do lead the way…” And with a shrug of his shoulders he followed the young woman back down the boardwalk and around the corner.

Aymeric crossed his arms, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Well, well.”

“Do you think…?” Estinien began.

“I could not possibly say,” Aymeric replied. “But if so, may Halone’s blessings favor them all.”

Estinien snorted a laugh. “Come on, Aymeric, let’s get something to eat.”

  
* * * * *

  
They could not quite be sure, of course, but it certainly seemed to be more than coincidence. Each time that Gegeruju would appear before them, booming his greetings, sending apprehension shooting through both elezen, he would suddenly be called away, distracted, inevitably, by T’yekhu, Eydith, M’tesa, J’nisi, or Golderyn… and once by D’nezra, who used her palm leaf fan to essentially usher the little lalafell down the boardwalk like a wayward cat. Every time it seemed to be naught more than simple coincidence—there was always something that demanded Gegeruju’s attention, of course—but the pattern was unmistakable. The dancers, and their fellow employees, were keeping Gegeruju away from them.

Thank Halone for Her mercy, indeed.

It was a vast improvement, and the rest of their vacation passed in a pleasant haze of long walks on the beach, swimming, leisurely meals, and terribly exuberant fucking. ‘Twas after one such enjoyable session while Estinien lay languidly draped across Aymeric’s chest that the dark-haired knight sighed softly and said, “Tomorrow is our last day here.”

“Mmmph,” the dragoon replied. Half asleep already, Aymeric figured, unsurprisingly so after the dicking he had just taken. He lazily ran his fingers up and down the valley of Estinien’s spine, savoring the warmth of his closeness. It felt very odd to admit but the truth was that he was not entirely looking forward to returning to Ishgard. As much pride as he took in his city and his work, as much as he believed in what he and many others were trying to accomplish there, he could naught but groan inwardly when he cast his mind forward to the towers of petitions and reports that doubtlessly awaited him, piled in neat columns on his desk like the bars of a cell. As loath as he had originally been to leave… he rather liked it here, as it turned out. Well, as long as Gegeruju stayed out of his hair, at least. Nonetheless, as the saying went, all good things came to an end, including their time at Costa del Sol. A pity, but there were worse things to anticipate than returning home. He nuzzled the top of Estinien’s head affectionately and closed his eyes.

In the morning they sat in the spot that had become their preferred breakfast locale, down the pier out along the water. Aymeric sipped at his tea—some fruity thing unheard of in Ishgard that he had nonetheless quickly grown to enjoy—and looked out over the sea.

“This time tomorrow we shall be aboard the ferry on our way back to Limsa Lominsa,” he said.

Estinien smiled wryly. “Not eager to leave?”

“I have enjoyed myself immensely,” Aymeric replied, and reached to cover Estinien’s hand with his own. “Particularly given my company.”

“You should listen to me more often,” Estinien said, and Aymeric laughed.

The unmistakable clop of swift, purposeful steps on the wooden pier caught both of their attention and they looked over. P’ebaloh, Gegeruju’s secretary, nodded as she strode up to their table.

“Ser Aymeric, Ser Estinien.” She addressed them each in turn, then deposited a sealed envelope onto the table. “On behalf of Master Gegeruju, proprietor of Costa del Sol, your presence is hereby formally requested at an event this evening. Details are inside. We look forward to seeing you there.”

With that, she turned and left.

Aymeric stared at the envelope, innocently lying there on table, as if it contained a multitude of stinging insects. From the corner of his eye he could see Estinien doing the same.

“Well,” he said, steeling himself. “I suppose we should see what he wants.”

Estinien muttered something rather vulgar. Carefully, Aymeric popped the seal and scanned over the note within.

“There is to be a show at the six o’clock bell,” Aymeric said. He winced a bit. “A dancing show. And…” he trailed off.

“And?” Estinien prompted.

“…And we are the guests of honor.”

The couple at the table next to them looked over rather sharply as Estinien said something _extremely_ vulgar.

Aymeric was quiet for a moment. “If it goes as poorly as the first dancing show, at least we shall be off home on the morrow.”

Estinien huffed. “Ever the optimist.”

“I am not certain I would call this optimism, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real moon jellies don't actually glow, sadly. But it feels like they SHOULD.
> 
> This was supposed to be the last chapter but it got real long so I split it into two. Why does this keep happening...


	4. Putting Two and Two Together

The bells dragged on toward six o’clock and both elezen steeled themselves with stoic and grim resolve, not unlike in days past when they had braced for a deployment to some particularly undesirable section of the Coerthan front. An unfair comparison perhaps, but neither of them could muster any sort of feeling toward the impending performance other than quiet, looming dread. Aymeric, in particular, felt rather out of sorts over it, because thanks to his morning spent chatting with the five dancers, he’d come to be rather fond of them, and the thought of seeing them again so… overtly sexualized… made him distinctly uneasy. He could understand that it was their job, but… he supposed his own stuffy Ishgardian sensibilities were not so easily set aside. To take his mind off it, he busied himself with packing the things they could, leaving only what they would need for the evening and the following morning: their pyjamas, a change of clothing, and basic toiletries. It helped, but not much.

Estinien paced around their room like a trapped animal as they waited, arms alternately clasped behind his back or folded against his chest. He felt decidedly less uneasy than Aymeric, and decidedly more repulsed. His memory of the dancers’ performance was perfectly well-functioning—despite his best efforts, really—and he had absolutely no desire to reinforce it with supplemental viewings. The whole situation made him feel vaguely ill, but, alas, not enough so that he feared he would again empty the contents of his stomach. Which was just as well, in the end, because _that_ would simply be embarrassing. Again.

At twenty minutes to the hour they both exchanged doleful looks and made their way toward the invitation’s indicated location: the large, open area at the very front of the resort. A number of people were already milling about and several rows of chairs had been set out facing a line of colorful planters that clearly served to designate the performance area. Off to one side, a trio of musicians were tuning their instruments and warming up.

“Ah, my good sers!” This time there would be no rescue from Gegeruju’s misplaced enthusiasm. With as much of a smile as he could muster, Aymeric nodded in response. Estinien didn’t even acknowledge the greeting.

“Good evening to you, Master Gegeruju.” P’ebaloh was nowhere to be seen, but D’nezra was in her designated spot at Gegeruju’s side, fanning away as always.

“You simply must join me up front!” Gegeruju said. “As the requested guests of honor, I will have it no other way!”

“Uh, requested?” Aymeric asked.

“Yes, yes, requested!” Gegeruju cheerfully confirmed. “The girls were all most insistent about it!”

Aymeric and Estinien exchanged looks. The dancers had _requested_ this? It seemed… unexpected.

“Do take your seats, sers! Need I remind you that you are quite tall and prone to blocking the view?” Gegeruju said, as D’nezra’s enormous palm leaf waved about above him. Without waiting for a reply he clapped his hands smartly. “Dyrstweitz!”

The bartender appeared quickly enough to startle both elezen, an impressive feat considering his impressive size—even taller, and most certainly brawnier—than either of them.

“Aye, Master Gegeruju?”

“The wine please! For the three of us!”

Aymeric groaned inwardly as he sat. Gods help him, he had no desire to drink any more of the swill that Gegeruju bafflingly favored. Nonetheless, Dyrstweitz returned with a tray of three glasses and doled them out, winking slyly as he handed Estinien and Aymeric theirs. Neither of them had any time to dwell on the puzzling gesture because at that moment, Gegeruju hopped to his feet, standing on the seat of his chair, and addressed the gathered crowd.

“Honored guests of Costa del Sol!” he boomed. He did really have quite the impressive projection considering his diminutive size. “I bid you all welcome to what promises to be a most exciting evening! For today, my beloved dancing girls are debuting a brand new performance, inspired by my esteemed Ishgardian guests, none other than Ser Aymeric de Borel, Lord Commander of Ishgard, and his dear dragoon friend, Ser Estinien Wyrmblood, themselves!”

Instantly, both men felt their faces turn hot as embers, and did their best to sink into their seats as every single eye turned toward them. Neither of them had ever been so glad as they were that moment to be facing away from the majority of the crowd.

“’ _Dear dragoon friend?’”_ Estinien snarled. “I’m a whole bloody lot more than _that_.”

Aymeric covered his eyes with his free hand. Fortunately, Gegeruju seemed neither to hear nor notice either of them. “And now, please make yourselves comfortable and prepare for the show of the season!”

There was a smattering of applause and the familiar sounds of a group of people shifting and settling as they all took their seats. Aymeric figured he may as well fortify himself with liquid courage, made to take a great gulp of Gegeruju’s terrible wine, and… stopped. He sniffed. The nose of it, well, it was… it was lovely, this time. He glanced over toward Gegeruju’s own glass. It could have merely been the light, but he could have sworn the color of it was ever so slightly different. Curious now, he took a sip.

Oh, _gods_ , that was good wine. Casting a look about the place, he managed to spy Dyrstweitz off to one side. As soon as the roegadyn man caught his eye, he grinned and gave him a thumbs up. Aymeric inclined his head and raised his glass in a silent toast.

“Taste the wine,” he muttered, leaning toward Estinien.

“What?” Estinien gave him a skeptical look, and Aymeric nodded at him. Estinien shrugged and rolled his eyes, but did as he’d been asked.

His eyebrows shot up.

“’Tis good,” he whispered. Really, it was an understatement. The wine was better than good. It was _superb_. Well, then. Bless that bartender. Even if tonight’s show proved to be as excruciating to endure as the one they’d been subjected to on their first day, at least they had good wine.

Applause and little cheers rolled through the crowd. Aymeric and Estinien braced themselves for the impending performance and looked over to see the dancers making their way toward the stage.

They both blinked.

The womens’ costumes were entirely different. Instead of the agonizingly skimpy outfits they’d worn the first time they’d seen them perform they were in sleek sleeveless vests and knee-length skirts, with decorated ribbons on the front that seemed incredibly familiar.

“Those are Ishgardian dresses,” Estinien said, surprised.

“Modified ones, it seems, aye,” Aymeric replied, equally surprised. And that was exactly what they looked like—Ishgardian-style women’s dresses, with the skirts shortened and the sleeves removed, which made perfect sense considering the weather in Costa del Sol.

As the young women approached their makeshift stage, they both also noticed that there were six of them, not five, walking arm-in-arm in pairs. ‘Twas P’ebaloh who rounded out the set, and that explained why she was not at her employer’s side like usual. All of them filed into place before the crowd, took up their positions, and smiled.

The harper struck a note, and the show was on.

Neither Aymeric nor Estinien could have prepared themselves.

Somehow, someway, all of them—including P’ebaloh!—had managed to learn, in less than a week, an entire suite of Ishgardian dances.

Aymeric recognized them easily: a courante, a sarabande, a passepied, and a rigaudon. Traditional court dances all, they were considered a bit old fashioned nowadays but most young men and women of the nobility and the wealthier merchant classes were still expected to learn them. Aymeric didn’t think he’d ever seen them performed with such cheeky charm, and certainly never by any miqo’te. All six of the ladies were clearly having a grand time, grinning from ear to ear as they looped arms with their partners and pranced through the signature hopping, twirling steps of each dance. Even better, their own personalities shone through in all their moves, and the result was far more fluid and exuberant than anything he had ever seen—or himself performed—in Ishgard. They even managed to work in just a touch of the ribald—a hip shimmy here, an overly-deep front bend there—but still nothing beyond what might simply be considered tastefully provocative in Ishgard. The kind of thing that would set tongues wagging for a few days, before the next juicy piece of high house gossip sped it from the mind.

The only way to properly describe it was _delightful_. Aymeric could not help but laugh from sheer enjoyment, and though Estinien would never debase himself with any kind of indication that he had been successfully entertained, a wry smile pulled insistently at the corner of his lips all show long. When the dancers stepped forward to take their final bows, even he applauded enthusiastically amidst the general din of the rest of the crowd.

“We should go,” he said, as the dancers filed off stage and the noisy post-performance chatter began. Aymeric nodded in agreement. Gegeruju had explicitly publicized their presence before the show had started, and neither of them wished to entertain any potentially interested parties. Fortunately for them, Gegeruju had cheerfully made himself the center of attention the moment he was able, and the two elezen easily slipped away amidst the polite chaos of everyone milling about. They quickly made their way back down the little hill toward the boardwalk, intending to return to their room, but were interrupted by a familiar call of their names.

“Mister Aymeric! Mister Estinien!” J’nisi stood on the other side of the bar, miraculously already out of her costume, grinning and waving her arm at them. The rest of the dancers were there as well, also changed into plain clothes, which might have explained why they were surprisingly unattended by potential admirers. The two men exchanged looks, then headed toward the little band.

“Congratulations on a wonderful performance, all of you!” Aymeric said.

“So you liked the show, then?” Golderyn asked.

“Aye, very much indeed, ‘twas a most charming surprise. I daresay even Estinien enjoyed himself.”

Estinien crossed his arms and huffed, but he was smiling, and made no effort to pretend otherwise.

“No vomiting this time, at least,” M’tesa teased, and Estinien’s cheeks flushed pink while everyone laughed.

“We were inspired by the two of you!” Eydith explained. “We so enjoyed watching you foxtrot, we wanted to try something Isghardian!”

“I did mean to ask where you all managed to learn those dances,” said Aymeric.

T’yekhu grinned wolfishly. “We were hoping you would! Turns out, we have a mutual friend who happened to stop into Costa del Sol earlier this week.” She pointed toward the bar. “And she offered to teach us.”

Both elezen turned to follow her gesture.

“Oh,” said Aymeric.

“You!” exclaimed Estinien.

From where she lounged on a barstool by Dyrstweitz, the Warrior of Light grinned and gave them a jaunty little wave.

“ _Sparkling Wine!”_ Estinien stormed over, pointing his index finger right between her eyes. “ _You_ sold me something you _knew I did not need_.”

“Puh- _lease_ , you always need arse grease,” she replied, loudly enough that Estinien and Aymeric both turned red as Limsan lobsters. “Oh, don’t fret over it. Here, Estinien, why don’t we have a toast to the success of the show?”

From the depths of her worn old overcoat, she retrieved a silver flask and shook it at him, eyebrows raised.

“No,” Estinien said, flatly.

“He can be taught!” she crowed, to Aymeric’s suppressed laughter.

“That ain’t that awful Hellsguard hooch now, is it?” Dyrstweitz asked.

“Sure enough.” She grinned and took a swig. “Would you like some, my friend?”

He shook his head. “Shite’s worse ‘n Gegeruju’s favorite wine cut with Garlean piss.”

“I never claimed to be a lady of taste.”

“And yet you are apparently well enough versed in the realm of Ishgardian court dances to teach them to newcomers in a matter of days,” Aymeric said, crossing his arms. His eyes twinkled fondly. “Where did you learn them?”

“Give the ladies some credit, Aymeric, they are professionals,” she replied. Her smile remained but most of the cheek left her expression. “Haurchefant taught me,” she said, softly.

“Ah,” said Aymeric. He and Estinien were quiet a moment, remembering their fallen comrade. “He did rather enjoy dancing,” he added, after a time.

Her smile grew fonder. “He did. He also would very much have enjoyed a carefree evening in Costa del Sol, do you not agree?”

“I do agree,” said Aymeric.

“Well, then.” She clapped her hands together. “Dyrstweitz, let’s get these fine ladies and gentlemen a round of drinks, shall we?”

“Aye,” he replied with a grin. “Mayhap more of the _good_ wine?”

“With my name, I’d be insulted by anything less.”

  
* * * * *

  
Aymeric de Borel had made a mistake.

As far as mistakes went, it wasn’t a particularly grave one, but, unfortunately, it was certainly causing him an amount of grief, not least of all because Estinien was being an absolute, insufferable _arse_ about it.

“Well, well, _well,_ ” the dragoon gloated, hands on his hips. “Who’s an irresponsible drinker, _now?”_

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, even through the alcohol-induced haze, Aymeric could admit that Estinien’s glee at his state was not unjustified, but he was not inclined to say it aloud.

“I am not that bad,” he retorted, managing to keep most of the slurring out of it.

Estinien snickered. “Bad enough to regret it tomorrow morning, I’d wager.”

Aymeric refused to dignify that with a response, not least because at that moment he happened to stumble and bump his shoulder against one of the posts along the boardwalk, sending the dragoon into another small paroxysm of laugher. Still, the knight forged on, stubbornly making his way back to their room. In truth, they should have long since been in bed, but the impromptu after party following the dancing show had been such good fun, and the wine had been such good fun to drink, that he had semi-consciously allowed himself to ignore the passage of the hours and the number of times the Warrior of Light had topped off his glass, until he had risen from his seat and the world had spun about his head like a top. A churlish piece of him felt that Estinien really did not have much room to talk, for ‘twas clear he too had at least gotten carried away enough to not realize the time, but ‘twas also clear that, this night, Aymeric’s judgment had been the worse of the two. An unusual, if not unheard of, state of affairs.

Returned to their quarters at last, Estinien made quite the show of unlocking the door for his inebriated lover, whose fine motor control was almost certainly unequal to the task, and let them both in. Aymeric was grateful to the foresight of his earlier self for having so carefully set out their pyjamas and toiletries, since it meant he could simply undress, clean his teeth, and slink off to bed like a morose old hound.

Snuggling in beside him, Estinien clearly could not resist a final gloat.

“Don’t worry, darling,” he said sweetly. “I’m sure I’ll have time before we leave to visit the alchemist and pick up a potion to ward against motion sickness.”

Aymeric sniffed primly. His wits were not entirely as impaired as Estinien assumed. “’Twould have done you better to purchase yet more lubricant from the Warrior of Light,” he replied. “Seeing as you are going to need plenty to grease your lonely hand whilst sleeping on the couch at home.”

  
* * * * *  


Another warm and glorious day had dawned over the beautiful seaside resort of Costa del Sol. Palm trees waved gently in the mild breeze, and the sunlight glittered like diamonds upon the Strait of Merlthor’s blue waters as the ferry departed from its terminal, bound for Limsa Lominsa. Estinien breathed deeply of the fresh, salty air and leaned back against the gunwale, enjoying the gentle rock and sway of the boat. On the pier, M’tesa, Eydith, J’nisi, Golderyn, and T’yekhu, plus Sparkling herself—comically towering above the comparatively tiny cohort of miqo’te and hyur—waved enthusiastically, having all graciously stopped by to see them off. Gegeruju, they had been informed, had sadly been unable to make it, something about a sudden and unexpected inconsistency in the wine inventory that demanded his immediate attention.

Truly a shame.

Next to him, Aymeric braced his elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. Estinien couldn’t help but take pity on his poor partner—after all, he knew exactly how he felt.

“How are you holding up, Aymeric?”

He groaned. “I have been better, my dear.”

Estinien laughed softly. “Don’t I know it. Well, chin up, you’ll have plenty of time to sleep it off tonight.”

Aymeric snuggled up against him and rested his head on Estinien’s shoulder. “Mmm. Next to you, of course.”

“Oh no,” Estinien said gravely. “I don’t think so. I was informed last night that I shall be spending my time alone on the couch.”

Aymeric sat up quickly, wincing as he did. It really was unfair just how handsome he was, though this particular morning found him bearing a haggard look about his eyes that wasn’t doing him any favors.

“…I did not say that.”

“I’m afraid you did.”

Aymeric sighed. “Well. We all say silly things when into our cups.”

“You also said that you’d give me a blowjob first thing every morning for a month.”

Aymeric tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “ _Did_ I?”

Estinien had to admit that, even hungover, Aymeric’s acumen remained impressive.

“No,” he confessed, laughing. “But ‘twas worth a try.”

Aymeric gave him a distinct _look_ before replacing his head on his shoulder.

“Strange at this may sound, Estinien—” he began, then yawned broadly, “—it does remind me… I felt we had such a good time at Costa del Sol that I booked us in again for this time next year.”

Estinien froze.

“You did… _what?”_

“Aye,” Aymeric simply replied. Estinien just sat there, speechless, tense as a wound clock, and quietly seething. While it was true that much of their vacation had indeed been a great deal of fun, the next time they traveled, he felt quite strongly that he would rather go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Preferably far from any other person who could possibly take interest in them. _Camping_. He just couldn’t believe that Aymeric would have done this without at least consulting him first—’twas the kind of thing that really should be a joint decision, was it not? _Furthermore—_

Aymeric’s familiar, rich chuckle interrupted his stewing, and Estinien’s indignation melted into suspicion.

“… _Aymeric._ ”

“’Twas worth a try, my dear.”

Estinien huffed. “If Ishgard knew what a bugger you really were—”

“They should vote me in again, I would imagine.”

Estinien huffed again, louder this time, and shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. He paused. “…Do you wish to return to Costa del Sol? Truly?” He bit his lip. As little desire as he had to visit again, if it made Aymeric happy…

The answer was surprisingly immediate, and near as resolute as Estinien had ever heard him be.

“No.”

The dragoon sighed with relief and relaxed at last, his arm around his beloved, sun warm on his face, and thankfully, blessedly, on his way home.

  
* * Fin * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here endeth Estinien and Aymeric's ill-fated vacation to Costa del Sol. I hope it entertained you greatly and thank you everyone for reading! ♥


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